Hate Kate

When sophomore Catalina Mulvoun becomes intwined in a devastating rumor, can she control her emotions or will the social suicide engulf her?

In this story, HATE KATE, follow Kate as she struggles with bullying and abuse to point of jumping off edges. Maybe she'll get help, or maybe she'll remain difusing for life.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is based on a true syndrome, one that I have. I've felt so many similiar emotions as Kate, so this story is dear and nataural to me. I wrote it one depressing day, reprecussing my feelings. It has evolved into a lovely novel-to-be right before my brown eyes! I hope you deeply enjoy!

I would personally rate this as PG-13, if that were a given option. There is all the classics: abuses, disorders, drugs, alcohal and teenagers, sexual references, and cursing.
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Chapters:

I'm Kate. I'm almost sixteen. I have black hair and boring eyes
that could easily be mistaken for the muddy water of a pond in
the middle of the country. I have glasses on the days that I'm
too lazy to put in contacts and a nose that scrunches when I
laugh. I snort when I giggle and sneeze louder than Gods. I have
fingers covered in nasty calluses from too many hours spent
writing cheese ball songs and practicing them on my guitar. I
play the piano nightly and have a love for Asian babies. My
sister is twenty-two; she's studying to become an oncologist at
Princeton University. I'm about to be sophomore, and I don't even
entertain the idea of it. I sincerely love the name Isabella. My
favorite movie is Titanic, I love the feeling of crisp
autumn air, and I have a deep passion for sailboats. Let me tell
you why.

Day 1:

"Wait. Stop." I push him back a little, but he won't quit. I lean
in for a few more kisses. "Hold on a moment, Marco." I put my
hands on his shoulders and try to get his
attention.

In between kissing, Marco struggles to say annoying words. "I
only have seven minutes. I have to-"

I pull away. I can barely see in Anna Taylor's hall closet. Light
seeps under to door; the only opening-an invitation for the light
to illuminate to tiny closet. "I'd rather just give you my bra
than have you continue kissing me."

"Bases are purposeless without honesty." Marco leans in for more
kisses. The timer ticks in the background. Teenagers laugh
loudly, the noise traveling under the door from the hallway,
along with the fluorescent light.

"Marco!" I growl as I stand up.

"What do you possibly want from me?"

I go to pace back and forth, but stop when I run into empty
clothes-hangers swaying on the rack. "For you to just break up
with me already! It's not even as if you like me. You're just
using me."

"Fine then." Marco jumps his feet. "We're done." He opens the
door, but stops in its way. "Can I haveyour bra to show
everyone?"

I grumble something unintelligible in response while summoning
the courage to crawl out from underneath my warm sheets and off
my fluffy pillow.

I'd been dream-remembering again. That night . . . the night I
tasted the first flavor of hatred.

She knocks again. "Catalina! School starts in half an hour!
Get up!"

"I'm up, I'm up!" I growl after opening my door to see my mom
standing there, dirty blonde hair scraggily, glasses at the tip
of her nose, and balancing a laundry basket on her hip. She looks
beautiful, like she always does, despite no makeup.

"This would be for you," she says and hands me the basket. "Fold
them, store them in your dresser neatly," she specifies,
"and get ready." She makes her way down the staircase adjacent to
my bedroom. "Don't be late if you want a ride to school; I have
to be at work on time for once."

Welcome to my little life.

School smells like new paint, anodyne, and friendships
reconciling from their summer hiatuses. I'm greeted by my
friends, Graig Packer-Ten, Melanie Lalas, Richard McCord, and
Anna Taylor Bruin. They act all giddy glad to see me and ask
about my summer. I spent my summer altering from hibernating and
camping out at my best friend's house, Anderlyn is her
name.

My first class is Art. While it sounds like fun to let your
creative side shine, it really isn't if you have yet to find
yours.

My mom is an artist. Well, she works as speech therapist, but
paints and sells masterpieces part time. However, I have no
creative side. I'm creative with words; I love to write. And with
music; it's my soul. But I cannot draw for the life of
me.

Our teacher is named Ms. Hill. She's dressed in a purple bohemian
skirt which drags on the floor, and a white turtleneck. It is
eighty-eight degrees outside. Now, what's wrong with this
picture?

Now that I know my single art teacher is immune to the wrath of
the late August sun, I listen to her tell us what to expect this
year. I feel like she should live in France. She's a
French-kind-of-person. I can picture her sipping cappuccinos,
wearing a beret, holding her pinkie up as she brings the little
cup to her mouth, attending a poetry reading.

My next class is English. This is where the story really
starts.

"If your last name begins with an A, raise your hand." My English
teacher, Mrs. Deshk, watches us, her little slaves, from atop her
throne (the chair behind her desk). She has planned out a little
alphabetized scheme to make our homework easier and this year
memorable.

I daydream as she progresses down the alphabet. "If your last
name starts with an M, raise your hand."

I feel like we're playing some sort of Simon Says/Mother, May I?
hybrid.

I raise my hand obediently. Two other students do as
well.

"Very well," Mrs. Deshk says. "Who has the last name Megara?
Partner up with Jose Nose." One student goes. "Alright, are you
McIntosh? You're with her," she points to a girl on the opposite
side of the room than me. "Jenny Niter." She looks at me, her
eyes staring into my mind. I feel like she's reading my thoughts.
"So, you must be . . . ?"

"Kate Mulvoun," I answer confidently.

Mrs. Deshk scans a piece of paper laying on the desk surface in
front of her. "Just checking, you are-"

"Oh," she pipsqueaks. She makes note of it on her paper. "Then
your partner is going to be Aaron Oliver. Aaron Oliver?" She
studies the room for a raised hand.

The hand in the air belongs to a boy with a chiseled facial
structure, hair so black it reflects rainbow rays like raven
feathers, and eyes so blue they pierce my soul when he glances at
me.

We scoot our desks together and stare at the tabletops awkwardly.
We're supposed to "get acquainted".

"So, your name is Kate," he states.

"Um. Yup. And yours is Aaron."

"Sí."

"Cool."

"Yeah."

Silence falls painfully like an ax. My ears burns and you can
feel the tension in the air. People like me. But should they? I'm
going to be who I want to be: standoffish, but talkative once I
find a common ground. I'm not going to be who others expect me to
be.

"So," Aaron says. "How 'bout them Mets?"

I cringe. I sigh and look at him, sitting across the table from
me. "This conversation," I say in turn, "puts meaning in the word
awkward."

He smirks, "Wow. Pretty and blunt. What a rarity."

I shrug, "It's a package deal. Hurry now and get humor half
off!"

Aaron rocks his chair back.

"So, what else do you want to know?"

He shrugs. "What's your favorite color?"

"Is that really necessary?" I raise a questioning
eyebrow.

"I think the simple things say more about a person than the big
achievements and that silly stuff people jabber
about."

"Seriously! It's like the Short Tribe is missing its leader." He
pokes my shoulder teasingly. "But every tall person needs a short
friend." He shrugs, "I'm new."

I pick up my bag and we walk out of the room together. "Where are
you from?" I ask him. "I've lived in Boynton Beach my whole
entire life. I'm a full-bred Floridian."

"I'm from New Mexico." We continue walking a little way, towards
the corridor where the lockers are. "But everyone here seems
nice; everyone here at Worthington High School."

I snort, "Oh, how you're wrong."

"What do you mean?" We stroll to locker 298. I assume it's his by
the way he steps up to it.

I find a way to put it simplistically. "Looks and personalities
are, more often than not, a sham."

Just as Aaron asks me to elaborate, my best friend since third
grade skips up to us and latches on my arm. "I haven't seen you
since this morning!" she starts to exclaim, but stops short to
turn to Aaron. Captivated, she smiles, "Well,
hello."

"Okay!" I finally cut it. "See you later, Aaron." I push Anderlyn
away from him and down the hallway, to our lockers.

"Ow!" she yips and wiggles out of my grip. "God, he's cute!" she
exclaims. "Dibs!"

I look at her in surprise. "I thought you had a boyfriend? James
McCoy?"

Walking beside me, with her blonde hair in curls and blue eyes
outlined in black eyeliner, in all her glory, my best friend
laughs at me. "Of course I'd break up with James for that guy!"
she giggles. "Imagine if we get married. I'll be Anderlyn . . .
What's his last name, Katie?"

"Hello, sissy!" I chime in return as I wait for my mother to pick
me up from school. "Excited for school to start back
tomorrow?"

"In a way. I don't want the homework, but this summer I'll get an
internship-in your face, Richie Riches and your exiguous tips!"
She laughs wholly. She hated waitressing. "Speaking of which, how
are you?"

"Cheap-o's remind you of me?" I ask her
defensively.

"No!" she giggles. "I meant speaking of school! How's
school?"

"Oh!" I say now. "It went well. Mostly. It was wicked boring. I
have a pretty rad English partner."

She demands, "Spill!"

I grin. "His name is Aaron. He has amazing hair and
these perfect eyes that can penetrate anything; they're
so blue! He's really smart, funny, and he just has this
worldliness to him. Like he's got this old soul, but youthful
brain. You know?"

I can hear the smile in Chloë voice as se squeaks, "Could
Catalina Mulvoun have found her freshman crush?"

"You drive me peanuts, Chloë," I roll my eyes.

"Oh, hey. Speaking of loves, I have a
date."

"With Brandon?"

Brandon McDuff has been her boyfriend for two
years.

"Yes! We're going to the movie. So . . . I have to cut this convo
short. Call me tomorrow, 'kay?"

I sigh grievously. "I don't think I would be able to survive our
crazy-ass parents without you, Chloë."

There's a little laughter in her voice. "I'm very glad to hear
that. Oh! And you should be getting a package from me, like,
today."

"I'll be looking forward to it. Bye, lovely!"

"Bye, Katydid!"

As I hang up, a head pops over my shoulder from behind. "Hello,
Shorty."

I turn around to find Aaron Oliver smirking and peering down at
me. "Hello, Tree," I reply in the same sardonic
tone.

"What's up?" he asks me, but I can tell he doesn't really care.
Especially since he obviously saw me talking on the phone, and
we're both waiting in the gazebo outside the school, where you
stand when expecting a car to come for you. He's just being
polite. I barely know Aaron; however, I can tell he is a nice,
friendly, generally jovial guy.

I contemplate. "I can't decide if I want to be the kind of girl
who answers with 'the sky', or the girl who answers
straightforwardly."

I see my mom's maroon Lexus pull up to the curb. "Oh, well. My
ride's here," I tell him. I feel awkward and clumsy around him.
"But Facebook me or something about that hang out
session."

He flashes me a goofy grin.

"Bye." I smile, immediately feeling insecure about its look. Why
do I feel . . . naked around Aaron?

When I get home, I'm writing a song about him.

I'm the girl no one trusts with their secret, because I don't
believe in them. I tend to tell everyone what's one my mind-even
if the information is just leased to me. I talk a lot. I have an
identic memory; I know ton of facts because I never forget them.
In times of deep and troubling boredom, my mind wanders. I don't
even have to be at school; I like to sit on the floor in the
corner of the attic, accompanied by cobwebs and boxes of old
memories, thinking.

That's all.

I like to think about what is going on in my life, what I watch
on the television, what I hear in my favorite songs, what I dream
about, what I laugh about, and every insignificant thing in
between.

A brown package sits on our doorstep. I sit on the cool tile in
the entryway and I yank open the package.

It's from Chloë. She wrote a note telling me how she got her
first notebook when she was a sophomore, and has kept one since.
Below the pink envelope is a smaller, half-sized composition
notebook with a silhouetted bird on the cover. The background is
light green, the bird is sky blue.

Maybe I'll use this.

Maybe.

As I open my eyes the next morning, I am overcome by a sense of
joy. I've never been so pleasured by the thought of high
school.

I dress myself in a cute pair of floral shorts and a white tee. I
take my time getting ready, adding an extra five minutes. I'll
walk to school if prepping means missing my mom's offer for a
ride. My hair is pulled back in a butterfly clip. My gladiator
sandals complete the look.

"I am adorable, aren't I?" I ask my snake, Jade, as I peek at her
through the glass terrarium in the game-room.